


Crossed Wires

by raphae11e



Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: (i.e. use of WYK for sexy reasons), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Biting, Edgeplay, Feral Behavior, M/M, Manipulation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Possessive Behavior, Rutting, Size Difference, Size Kink, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26296927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raphae11e/pseuds/raphae11e
Summary: When Atlas had paid for a sleeper agent to be built at his command, he asked for a lot of things. Strength, efficiency, and susceptibility to mental suggestion, to name a few. Most of the kid's traits he'd left up to the doctors who created him-- his dynamic being one of them. He figured they'd go with Beta, since it seemed the simplest option, but Jack turning out to be an Alpha is interesting, if unexpected.What'smoreinteresting is when Jack's rut hits him full force, and the first thing he does is bare his throat to Atlas.
Relationships: Atlas/Jack (BioShock), Frank Fontaine/Jack
Comments: 7
Kudos: 87





	Crossed Wires

**Author's Note:**

> I took a break from the wholesome AU I'm writing (see "The Sweet Science of Bruising"!) to finish up this filth I had half-written from long ago. The idea for this mainly came from the thought of how all of that ADAM used in Jack's creation might have messed with his Alpha tendencies, and how his kindly handler might be... _intrigued_ by that. ;^)
> 
> Ahh, it feels good to see canon Atlas again. What a fucking asshole.

As it turns out, genetically engineering a human person was far more complex than Atlas had imagined.

Not for _him,_ mind. And it’s not as though he’d thought it would be easy either, not exactly-- he’d just figured ADAM would do most of the heavy lifting. What with its then-recent discovery under the skin of some awful deep sea creature, most things in Rapture had gotten a hell of a lot smoother. Medical procedures were no exception. So when he’d finally gotten his hands on Ryan’s kid, and handed said kid over to the good doctor Suchong, he’d washed himself of the rest of the process and left it to the professionals. He was good at marketing ADAM, sure, but wasn’t particularly attuned to its inner workings. 

He hadn’t thought, even for a second, that certain and very _specific_ parts of biology were not at all meant to be messed with.

_Atlas? Atlas, I-- Something’s wrong._

The tinny voice leaks sudden and sharp from his radio and Atlas nearly jumps out of his skin. Frowning, he draws closer to the security monitors set into the wall of his safe room, peering up into their cold light. Jack is rarely ever the first to call him unless there’s a serious threat about. And yet… nothing. Not a single bit of movement on the screens, save for the kid himself, huddled in a corner on Fontaine Fisheries’ upper wharf.

“What is it, boyo? You aren’t hurt, are you?” Surely he would’ve heard the kid get into any serious shit. 

_No, I. I’m fine, but I just. I feel_ odd. There’s a strange, rattling inhale that sounds suspiciously like a sob. Atlas is just about to sigh inwardly and ask (patiently, always patiently) for an explanation, but he’s beaten to the punch. 

The blip on the monitor shifts, accompanied by another pathetic noise, and then Jack is saying, _Atlas, if you don’t mind me asking-- a-are you an Alpha?_

“That I am,” Atlas agrees, albeit cautiously. “And you?”

_Y-Yes, and I-- I think-- um. I feel… feverish._

_Ohh._ Though part of him is still struck with annoyance at the hold up, Atlas feels most of the tension bleed from him immediately. He’d assumed they’d just made the kid a Beta, seeing as it would’ve been easier not to worry about ruts or heats while scrambling his dNA. But no-- another Alpha, then. Not so bad. Certainly not as bad as an Omega, who’d be out like a light from the moment his heat began, leaking slick and scent everywhere. He wouldn’t stand a chance down here in a state like that. An Alpha’s rut, though, might give him an advantage, seeing how aggressive it could make them. 

“Don’t fret too much over it,” he says. “I know it don’t feel too great, but it may do more good than you think. Make them splicers more wary of you.”

 _But--_ Jack turns in such a way that lets Atlas know he’s looking up into the camera above him, trying to make some semblance of eye contact. _Atlas, it feels_ wrong. _I-I don’t think this is what-- what it’s supposed to--_

“Listen, boyo. Have y’had your first rut?”

 _I--_ The sentence starts out confident, but Jack’s voice soon splinters under his uncertainty. _I’m… not sure._

Atlas tries to put a little surprise into his voice at that, though it’s the answer he’d expected. “Alright. So what makes you think this ain’t what it’s supposed to feel like?” He sighs, flicks open his lighter. “Jus’ be careful as you move forward, would you kindly.”

For a moment, Jack is silent. It seems a little abashed, but there’s still tension there, too. Atlas watches on the screen as the man moves from crouching to standing as if testing his weight. He straightens, his image blurring as he shakes his head and begins moving further up the wharf. 

“There, see?” Atlas leans back casually in his chair, though his eyes still remain pinned to Jack. “Nothin’ to worry about.”

Of course, karma is keen to prove him wrong all too quickly after that.

Jack is close to the Fighting McDonagh’s, fending off a few splicers and avoiding a Big Daddy, when it happens. He takes out a Leadhead, dodges to the side to avoid its last shot of Electrobolt, and his knees give way beneath him. 

Instantly, Atlas is up on his feet. “Watch yourself!” he cautions. “There’s a--”

\--Second splicer coming up behind Jack’s prone form, but before he can even think to retaliate, an earth-shattering _bang_ comes from the turret he’d hacked moments prior. The splicer is blown to pieces instantly. And still, Jack remains frozen on the ground.

“You alright? Are you hit?”

 _I-I--_ The better angle of this camera allows Atlas to see as Jack gets his arms beneath him and tries to force himself up. It half works, but when he does the same with his legs, they all but collapse under his weight. _Atlas,_ he says. Just that, at first. There’s more hard breathing, tenuous like Jack is trying to control its shake, and some part of Atlas’s hindbrain perks up in interest. 

_Atlas,_ Jack repeats, _I don’t think I can move much further. I need--_

“You need me to come to you, is that it?”

Jack freezes. Every line of him seems guilty, as though asking for such a thing is somehow presumptuous. In some ways, it is; Atlas almost wants to be irritated with him for it. But the intrigued part of him-- and the increasingly anxious part, too, that his plan may be compromised in some unforeseen way-- wins out in the end.

“Alright. I’ll be there. Just-- see if you can’t get yourself into McDonagh’s at least.”

_Right. Okay, I can-- I can do that._

With a long-winded sigh, Atlas clips his radio to his hip and gathers up the few things he may need: med kits, weapons, the works. He even grabs one of the EVE hypos he has lying around in case of an emergency, though he himself has never spliced. 

_What a good handler I’ve become,_ he muses as he leaves his safe room behind. 

By the time he backtracks his way through the metro system and reaches Neptune’s Bounty, Jack is gone from where Atlas had last seen him. That much, at least, is a relief; the kid isn’t totally immobile. He wonders briefly if maybe it’s just shock that had made him freeze up, anxiety at a new bodily function he hasn’t experienced in his whole short life-- though he seems to think that he has.

 _What kind of memories did they give him, anyway?_ Atlas finds himself wondering. Clearly Jack thought he had a family; did he think he’d had lovers, too? Kind, faceless people who’d helped him through ruts he hadn’t ever had? He supposes if he’s careful enough, he might ask Jack once he finds him.

After climbing the stairs to McDonagh’s second level, it doesn’t take him long to do just that. Jack is holed up in one of the shitty overnight rooms that is blessedly corpse-free; when Atlas appears in the doorway, bright, round eyes turn to him like they’ve seen an apparition.

“Atlas?” Jack asks. His voice is surprisingly deep. The poor quality of their radio signal had never done it justice, it seems. 

“Aye, it’s me.” He steps forward, smiling, and watches as the other man returns it. “Good to finally meet you.”

“Same to you. I’m sorry it couldn’t have been more, um… fitting.”

Atlas snorts. “You still got them rose-colored glasses on, boyo. I’d take ‘em off if I were you.”

“Right.” Jack fidgets briefly from where he’s seated on the bed. “Sorry.”

“Ahh, come on. I’m only teasin’.” As he comes closer, Jack’s eyes follow his movement closely. “Now, let’s have a look at you.” 

What meager light the room has shines on the man’s face, drawing attention to his pallor and the sheen of sweat on his skin. Definitely a rut, then-- especially if the smell is anything to go by. It’s sharp, spicy, and so pervasive that Atlas has to resist the urge to lick it from his teeth. Walking into the room had been akin to an open-palm slap. 

If Jack had been any other Alpha, Atlas might’ve been even a bit more cautious about striding in, calm as you please-- but this is _his_ charge, after all. He’s got methods in place. As strong as instincts are, he doubts they’d be strong enough to break through all those layers and layers of mental conditioning. Case in point, it seems, when he stops at Jack’s feet and is greeted with nothing more than a slightly worried, slightly awed stare.

“Right,” he says. “How do you feel now? Worse, better?”

“Ah. About the same. Though getting all the way up here was… challenging.” 

“Hmm.” A brief image of Jack on fawn-weak legs, teeth grit in pain, flashes through his mind. Atlas has to resist the urge to smile. “Alright. But we ain’t goin’ anywhere until we figure out what feels so off about this. Can’t go gettin’ yourself killed, now can you?”

Jack huffs out a laugh. “Of course not.” 

“Good. Now budge a bit closer, please.”

Jack does so, head tilting a bit further back so he can maintain eye contact. He’s tall-- _ridiculously_ tall, if the length of his legs is anything to go by. Even sitting down he’s only a head shorter than Atlas. It’s hard to imagine how he might’ve appeared topside, towering over everyone like that. But despite his imposing size, the kid couldn’t be more passive: hands resting on his knees, face open enough to read from a mile away.

His scent, though still sharp, is even keel. It had mellowed out as soon as Atlas walked into the room. Obviously a rut causes all sorts of conflicting notes, chief among them aggression and arousal, and yet… this _is_ different. Atlas has never known an Alpha in his life to be this calm before a rut, let alone before their first. 

_A genetic anomaly, after all,_ he muses. Curious, he presses a cautious palm beneath Jack’s chin, aiming to tilt his head this way and that for inspection.

The reaction he gets is rather _compelling_.

Jack’s spine straightens as though pulled taut by an invisible string, his hands fisting tight in his slacks and eyes widening impossibly further. They catch the light of Atlas’s half-spent cigarette and seem feverish in its warmth. His lips part, his breath escaping him in a hushed gasp. In Atlas’s grip, he is _trembling._

“Whoa, there.” Surprised more than anything, Atlas makes to let go but is stopped by the noise it coaxes from Jack: a whine, high and reedy, cut short in embarrassment. For a brief moment, his eyes flick away and flutter shut. His scent spikes citrus in fear and shame. 

It’s hard to miss the way his chin tips upwards as though trying to bare his throat. 

Atlas, in his shock, goes near totally still. An Alpha, presenting his weakness to another of his kind? Asking to be _marked?_ It’s degenerate at best, damning at worst.

Lucky for Jack, Atlas is all too comfortable with slotting himself into the former category.

“Hey,” he says, quietly, soothingly. Like how he might speak to a particularly skittish Omega. “Hey, now. Look at me, boyo.”

Even without a trigger phrase, even with his mounting embarrassment, Jack obeys quickly. He’s flushed under the sheen of sweat now, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. The bed beneath him creaks as he shifts minutely. Atlas doesn’t bother being discreet; he tilts his gaze downwards, catching sight of the bulge trapped in too-tight slacks. 

Something inside him swells. Something pleased and possessive. Something far too eager to sink its teeth in and ask questions later. 

When Atlas looks up, there’s a smile on his face, and Jack is _whining_ again. It’s muffled yet insistent in the back of his throat, mounting with the lust in his scent as it blooms thick and floral. Though the rest of him won’t stop fidgeting, his jaw remains firmly in place in Atlas’s hand, its muscles flexing intermittently.

Atlas breathes deeply in, then out. He lets his cigarette fall to the floor and stomps out the last of its embers. Voice a low rumble, he asks, “You need me to take care of you, Jackie?” 

The pained sound that answers him is enough to send his blood boiling. Atlas doesn’t bother asking for any more permission than that.

When their mouths meet for the first time, it’s hard to situate themselves because of just how _eager_ Jack is. He kisses all wrong, too slack and sloppy, teeth clacking hard against Atlas’s when he feels briefly emboldened. When one rough hand grips him by his nape and squeezes, though-- then, he’s pliant as could be. Atlas can actually feel the man go limp against him. The greedy little moans filling the air between them are the only real sign of Jack’s desperation.

“If I do this for you,” Atlas growls when they break apart, “you’ll be good for me, isn’t that right?”

“Good,” Jack parrots back. His eyes flutter open, and for a moment, all that’s visible are the whites. “So good, I p-promise.”

Atlas grins. “That’s a lad.” He can feel his own hackles rising in response to the obedience, eager to protect what’s his. It’s hard to keep his eyes from straying to the junction between neck and jaw, where Jack’s scent is strongest. Every breath he takes feels thick with it. He imagines pressing his teeth just so, biting down harder and harder until… 

“You’re _mine,”_ Atlas hisses. “Understand?”

Jack makes a sound like he’s been gutted. “Yours,” he agrees, overcome, “yours, yours.”

Considering his size, it’s easier than expected to guide him back onto the threadbare mattress, shedding shoes and slacks as they go. Atlas allows eager hands to pull at his shirt; though they fumble over the fastenings there, they manage to keep everything intact until the topmost set. There’s a _rip_ as the button is torn from the fabric. 

Another flash of annoyance runs through him like lightning, but he’s quick to stifle it before Jack picks up on the change. Instead, Atlas shrugs the shirt from his shoulders and moves to sit astride the other man’s hips. 

“Christ,” he breathes out, “they certainly built you _well-formed,_ didn’t they?”

Jack only responds with a moan. Hips pressed against Atlas’s ass, he bucks over and over in a futile attempt to satisfy his rut. It’ll be hours, at least, before the fog will lift enough for him to think of much else besides fucking.

All things considered, Atlas notes, it isn’t the _worst_ use of his time. 

“Careful, now,” he scolds lightly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He wants to be able to _savor_ this.

For a moment he simply sits back and observes. It really is beautiful, seeing Jack struggle with the need to appease his own desires and the need to submit. The result is a shiver that runs all the way down the length of his body as he fights to keep still. If anything, the abortive motion does show off his _considerable_ muscle mass. Thick arms, a well-defined stomach, a plush chest. It’s all too easy to lean forward and grab whatever part he sees fit, and he’s distinctly reminded of appraising livestock.

“I won’t lie to you, boyo,” Atlas says with a grin, “these tits a’ yours are enough to make any broad jealous, I reckon.”

Jack’s eyes go wide as saucers, his blush creeping all the way down to the… _assets_ in question. He bites his lip in a way that tells Atlas he’s trying to remain quiet. 

He _could_ play nice. Tell the kid it’s alright, that he doesn’t have to be ashamed. But Atlas is far more willing to indulge his mean streak. Instead, he says, “Think I could get myself off just usin’ these?” And he _squeezes._

He’s nearly bucked off as Jack’s whole body jumps in response. Meaning it as a punishment, Atlas pinches one nipple between thumb and forefinger-- but of _course_ Jack is a glutton for pain, and so the motion is hardly a deterrent. If anything it makes him more desperate, spine arching clear off the sheets.

What _is_ a deterrent, however, is the annoyed look Atlas shoots his way. “None a’ that,” he says sharply. 

Jack goes absolutely still. There’s more of that citrus tang again, that creeping _shame,_ running as an undercurrent to the ever-present scent of arousal. Atlas would be lying if he said it wasn’t an appealing combination.

“Now,” he begins, “why don’t you tell me what you’d like good ol’ Atlas to do for you, hm?”

Jack swallows hard enough for it to be audible. “A-Anything.” Oh, how his voice _shakes_ as he says it. “W-whatever you want.”

“Is that right?” 

All he gets is a quick nod, and the sight of Jack’s chest rising and falling with each rapid breath. He looks downright _feverish._

Atlas has to fight not to appear too smug. He’s not quite sure he succeeds. “Oh, Jackie,” he drawls, “if only you knew what those words mean to me.”

This time, when they kiss, he doesn’t bother correcting Jack’s form. He wants there to be _blood._ And he does get his wish-- he can taste it when he licks into that warm and waiting mouth, can feel it gather under his nails as he claws at one broad shoulder. Jack, however, remains surprisingly passive unless coaxed to do otherwise. Desperate for approval as ever, it seems.

 _Well-trained, this one,_ Atlas thinks, and his grin borders on feral. 

They break apart just long enough for Atlas to tug his last remaining article of clothing off, tossing it carelessly to the floor. He’s hard, of course-- painfully so, and has been ever since Jack had first bared his throat-- but this seems to come as a surprise to his charge. Those pretty doe eyes are locked between his legs and can’t seem to look away.

Two massive hands hover fitfully over Atlas’s spread thighs. “Go ahead,” he coaxes. “You’re allowed to touch.”

As it turns out, when given permission, Jack is _far_ from shy about doing so. Atlas bites his lip to prevent himself from groaning as those hands go straight for his ass and palm it easily. He’s not ashamed to admit that, if given the free will to do so, Jack could probably break him in half over one knee. No point in building a super soldier if the man wasn’t an absolute _tank._

That’s probably what makes it all the more intoxicating when all Jack does with his newfound freedom is pull Atlas closer. Neck craned forward, lips parted so _sweetly,_ he presses a cheek to Atlas’s inner thigh and takes a deep, dizzying breath.

Atlas is about to comment-- something snide that would earn him another pretty blush or quiet plea-- but for once, Jack beats him to the punch. “H-Hurts,” he chokes out. His eyes are glazed over with unshed tears, peering up through clumped lashes. “A- _Atlas.”_

“I know, I know,” Atlas replies, placating. But then he pauses as he realizes he isn’t quite sure what Jack means. “Show me where,” he says.

Jack’s teeth worry at his bottom lip. “I--” He squeezes his eyes shut, _hard._ Then he rolls his hips, _just_ enough for Atlas to feel it, and _oh._

“Ahh. Why didn’t you just say so?” He’d almost forgotten that Jack hasn’t yet stripped entirely. Sure enough, when he slides back to straddle the man’s thighs instead, he’s greeted by a very obvious, very _pressing_ concern.

Once he's finally able to wrestle the shorts off of the squirming form beneath him, Atlas discovers exactly what he'd expected-- though he certainly isn't disappointed. Because the cock he's greeted with is downright _monstrous._ Heavy enough that it lists to the side when left alone, its head flushed a deep purple, veins throbbing along its length. The knot at its base is already half-swollen. As Atlas stares, the goddamn thing _flexes,_ drooling a strand of precome onto one of Jack's muscled thighs.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. "You could split a man open with that."

The comment is doubly effective for the way it makes Jack bite his lip in embarrassment-- and something deep in Atlas's gut _clench_ in anticipation.

They say you should never sample your own merchandise. And while Atlas had stuck firmly to that rule with everything else he’d ever dealt in… here, he’s far more than willing to make an exception. Would be a shame not to, really. This might be the only chance he gets.

“A-Atlas…” Jack seems to wrestle briefly with something-- perhaps guilt, and isn’t _that_ an enticing thought-- before finding his voice again. “I n-need-- _ah…”_

“Need what, boyo? Use your words.”

“N-Need you to-- to-- t-to fill me.” All of Jack’s substantial muscle mass rolls beneath him like an ocean tide. Face flushed so prettily, he begs, _“Please._ M _’empty.”_

Jesus, they sure had scrambled the poor kid’s brains. Atlas’s next smile is little more than the baring of teeth. “All in good time, sweetheart,” he growls. “But first, I’m gonna ask you to do somethin’ for me.”

The eager nod that earns him is almost enough to make him laugh. Does he even _need_ to use those three magic words, in a situation like this? He’s fairly certain he could ask the man to press a gun to his own temple, and he’d do it.

All the simmering heat in Atlas’s gut _burns_ at the thought. Time to put that obedience to the test-- although not quite _so_ brazenly.

He presses one, two, three fingers against already parted lips. Not even a command has to be uttered before Jack is taking them into his mouth, brow furrowed and eyes fluttering shut in concentration. Atlas forces himself to simply watch for a moment before he says, “Open.”

Fuck, is the kid _drooling_ for it. He can feel it as he skims his fingertips over teeth and tongue, forcing Jack to open wider to accommodate the stretch. It’s hard to resist the urge to dip back into the tight clutch of that waiting throat, to see Jack _gag_ because of it, but he manages. When he pulls his hand away, his fingers are nearly dripping.

“Very good,” he purrs, almost as an afterthought. It’s worth it for the way Jack goes boneless at the praise. 

That brief lull gives him the time he needs to reach back and press all three fingers against his own hole. He breathes out, slow and steady; _his_ body is starting to feel feverish too now, no doubt sent into some kind of sympathetic rut because of Jack. It leaves his joints a bit achy and his thoughts muddled, a low heat simmering just under the surface of his skin. 

Fortunately it only makes it _marginally_ harder to focus on preparing himself. He tries to walk the line between perfunctory and thorough; Atlas is no stranger to pain, but he’d also prefer to keep all of his organs in their rightful place. 

_Alright-- enough._ He can taste the anticipation Jack is radiating, hot and pulsing and almost metallic, and suddenly he can’t bring himself to wait any longer. He situates himself on his knees, straddling Jack’s waist.

“I need you to keep still for me,” he says. 

Though he doesn’t use the trigger phrase, Jack responds as though he had: fists clenched in the sheets, jaw set, like he’s waiting to take a punch. He gives a tight nod.

Atlas grins. “Atta boy.”

No sooner does he take a seat on Jack’s cock than he can feel the man’s body _tense._

“Ah ah--” Atlas doesn’t bother to be gentle: he reaches back, a groan escaping him as it jostles what little of Jack is already inside him, and wraps several fingers around the base of that cock. “Don’t you dare,” he snarls.

With a pitiful whine, Jack stills beneath him. It works though-- the pressure is _just_ enough to stop him from tipping over the edge. 

“If you pop this thing now we won’t be movin’ for _long_ afterwards.”

Jack, bless his gentle soul, looks like he’s about to _cry._ “M’sorry,” he sobs. “S’just-- good, so good, _please._ A-Alpha, I-I _can’t.”_

Though part of Atlas wants to be irritated, he has to admit-- the title goes a _long_ way in placating him. A pleased growl climbs up from somewhere deep in his chest. “Do you need me to help you?” he asks.

“Y-Yes-- ah, _please.”_

“Alright.” Atlas smiles down at him, delicate as a knife’s edge. “Then would you kindly not come until I say so?”

It’s the first time he’s seen the words take effect in person: a subtle calm settles over Jack for a brief moment, quick enough to miss if you weren’t looking for it. Then he blinks, and he’s back to flushed and feverish and wanting, and he’s saying, “O-Okay.”

Now _Atlas_ is the one who has to fight not to come as he slides down, down, until Jack is buried almost to the hilt inside him. 

His breath leaves him in sharp pants as he adjusts to the stretch and burn of his insides, nails biting crescents into Jack’s skin. He’s not sure even the most careful preparation could’ve readied him for _this._ No more than a careful shift of his hips has him seeing stars and his cock jumping against his thigh. 

“Hah, _fuck,”_ he slurs, “S’like fuckin’ a-- a--” Christ, he can’t even _think_ straight. Maybe that would be embarrassing if it didn’t feel so fucking _incredible._

And as deep as Jack is inside him, there’s still the tight press of that thick knot against his ass. Maybe it was a good thing he’d used the trigger phrase after all.

“W-Wanna move, Atlas.” Every fiber of Jack’s being seems devoted to preventing himself from doing just that. “I-- _ah._ C-Can I, please?”

Atlas takes a deep breath: in, out. Tries to relax each and every one of his muscles. “No,” he says. “Keep still.” Then, his own thighs already aching from the strain, he raises up and then lets himself drop. 

Pain and pleasure bloom inside him together, have his lip curling and eyes rolling back in his head. He manages to catch himself at the last second before he falls completely forward; elbows locked, palms against Jack’s chest, he forces himself to _breathe._ Jack is doing the same, each exhale accompanied by a wavering, needy sound. 

Spurred on by that response-- by the hot, prickling _pride_ he feels at claiming what’s rightfully _his--_ Atlas moves again. And again, and again, and again. 

God, he swears he can feel that cock in his _throat,_ but that’s hardly a bad thing. Each stroke has his train of thought falling to pieces, sends the both of them mindlessly scrabbling for purchase. The slap of skin against skin is enough to make him salivate. Clearly Jack feels the same way-- but he does little more than writhe and moan and run shaking hands over whatever parts of Atlas he can reach. Ever the obedient workhorse, he takes only what he’s given.

 _Mine, mine, mine,_ Atlas’s frenzied mind helpfully supplies. He bends nearly in half just to reach Jack’s kiss-bruised mouth.

For some reason, _this_ is what gets his charge pleading again. “A-Atlas, please--” The fingers gripping his thighs dig _in,_ before letting go suddenly as if burned. _“Please,_ can I--” 

At the next thrust, the hips under him jump without warning, and the shock of it travels all the way up his spine. It forces a shout from his throat before he can even think to stifle it.

Snarling-- half angry, half grudgingly pleased with the challenge-- Atlas gets a hand under Jack’s nape and squeezes.

“I _said,”_ he tightens his grip, shaking once like a disobedient dog, “keep _still, would you kindly.”_

Jack goes rigid beneath him. Chest heaving great shuddering breaths, he trembles as Atlas presses another hard kiss to the underside of his jaw. At the first hint of teeth, the noise he makes is downright pathetic.

And when Atlas sinks his teeth in, he _howls._

The thick scent of Jack’s rut fills Atlas’s mouth like honey, coating his tongue, and he breathes deep as vivid bursts of color bloom before his eyes. It’s like looking too long into the sun after years spent in darkness. The strength of it nearly _hurts,_ and Atlas snarls again, gripping Jack’s hair tighter and pressing his hips down to force them closer.

It’s just about the best thing he’s felt since he first stepped foot in this rotten city.

As his senses sharpen, the sound of Jack’s keening grows louder. His fingers are digging into the meat of Atlas’s thighs; they’re bound to leave bruises there in a few hours, dark and purpling. The rest of him is shivering violently, hips trying and failing to thrust. He _had_ been told to keep _still,_ after all. 

Atlas pulls back with his teeth still bared. He can taste the lingering scent on the back of his tongue, and blood is seeping into the grooves in his molars, and the bite marks he leaves behind are wet with saliva. He wonders what it would’ve been like if he hadn’t gentled. If he’d bitten down harder, and harder, Jack helpless to stop him, until Atlas would’ve cut so deep that maybe he could’ve reached the sinew beneath, and--

 _“Christ,”_ Atlas moans, all but _consumed_ by the flood of arousal that washes over him, and he leans in to bite at Jack's warm, panting mouth. The pressure that puts on his cock, throbbing as it is against his belly, along with all those exquisitely violent thoughts, is enough to bring him _right_ up to the edge.

And then there’s a sharp _spike_ of heat as Jack’s knot finally slips inside him. 

Atlas seizes up, mouth going utterly slack against Jack’s. Just before he loses all sense, he chokes out: “W-Would y-- _hah,_ j-just-- _come-!”_

He spills into the meager space between their bodies, and all that breaks through the white-hot haze of pleasure is the sound of Jack crying out. Once again tastes blood; he’s bitten through the kid’s lip. Still half-drunk on endorphins and their shared hormones, he diligently laps up the red that falls from the wound like liquid rubies. 

It provides him with the precious few seconds he needs to regain his senses-- most of them, anyway.

Cheek resting gingerly against Jack’s collarbone, Atlas allows himself a brief respite. Might as well get comfortable; it’ll be five, maybe ten minutes before they’ll be able to move again. But though the two of them are pressed chest to chest, Jack still remains strangely tense against him.

…And that’s when he realizes. “You can move now, boyo,” he says.

Immediately, Jack does so, body released from its subliminal command. Two arms, so _unsure_ despite their strength, come up to wrap around his waist.

It almost feels… nice. But Atlas would rather be damned than dwell on that for a second longer. 

Instead, he focuses on what else he can feel. The throbbing warmth in his gut tells him all he needs to know: Jack had come precisely when he’d been told. Atlas is irrevocably _pleased_ at the thought. Enough that, although it makes every part of him ache, he grinds down almost lazily into the cradle of Jack’s hips.

And Jack, innocent as ever, makes the most plaintive of sounds at that attention. “I-It’s all so _much,”_ he says breathlessly. The first complete sentence either of them have said in what feels like a dog’s age. “But even so I-- I still feel…” His body answers for him: it _twitches_ under the continual attention. The air is still thick with scent, spiced rum and arousal and the latent heat of his rut.

“You’ll be foamin’ at the mouth again in no time flat,” Atlas says with a snort. “For now just-- take a breather, yeah?” 

Jack hums in response, arms tightening their hold on him ever so slightly. Meek as a lamb, as if he hadn’t just sent both of them into absolute fits mere minutes prior. Though he’d never admit it, Atlas is exceedingly grateful knots take so long to subside; if they didn’t, he has no earthly idea how he’d match the man’s pace.

But then again, he’s got more than one trick up his sleeve to even the odds. 

“Next round,” he says against Jack’s skin-- lips brushing the bloody crescent still weeping there-- “I'll be the one to fill that ache a’ yours.”

The words turn Jack perfectly docile in his grasp, and Atlas bares his teeth against that vulnerable, unassuming throat.


End file.
